American.

"Of course, I remember him. Phil and I were playmates in the old
days. Dear me, it seems a century ago," she said.

"I cannot tell you how well the century has treated you," he said,
gallantly. "It has not been so kind to me."

"Years are never unkind to men," she responded. She smiled upon the
adoring prince and turned again to Quentin. "Tell me about New York,
Phil. Tell me about yourself."

"I can only say that New York has grown larger and better, and that
I have grown older and worse. Mrs. Garrison may doubt that I could
possibly grow worse, but I have proof positive. I am dabbling in
Wall street."

"I can imagine nothing more reprehensible," said Mrs. Garrison,
amiably. Quentin swiftly renewed his opinion of the mother. That
estimate coincided with the impression his youth had formed, and it
was not far in the wrong. Here was the mother with a hope loftier
than a soul. Purse-proud, ambitious, condescending to a degree--a
woman who would achieve what she set out to do at all hazards. Less
than fifty, still handsome, haughty and arrogant, descended through
a long line of American aristocracy, calm, resourceful, heartless.
For fifteen years a widow, with no other object than to live at the
top and to marry her only child into a realm far beyond the dreams
of other American mothers. Millions had she to flaunt in the faces
of an astonished, marveling people. Clever, tactful, aggressive,
capable of winning where others had failed, this American mother was